Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. Suzanne Collins does (though I wish I do m(_ _)m).
A/N: Haha, wasn't sure whether or not I'd have to put that ^ but, better be safe than sorry :P This is my first fanfiction, having lived out my life so far in blissful ignorance of such an idea. Now that I've found it, it has nearly taken over my life -_- Damn people for writing such interesting stories!
This is rated T but has some swearing in it. Not much though... Unless I find myself in a particulary bad mood ;)
Please read, enjoy, favourite (yes, I'm English, I spell things like that - sorry, won't be calling taps 'faucets' anytime soon... If I can even get that in my story), follow and REVIEW ^^
The lights of District 3 forever shine, creating an illusion of a never-ending day; only in blackouts will night seem to exist. I stand in my too – small apartment, one of the three hundred packed in like sardines in this particular, which towers above most of the city. District 3 has the smallest ground space out of them all, so we were forced to build up, higher and higher, trying to touch the skies. I press my hand against the room's window and then my forehead, sighing as I feel the cold. It calms me somehow. My breath creates condensation on the window, which I write in unconsciously as I make it.
Outside, even though it's only 4am, still quite early for District 3, an umbrella of woven lights, stretched across the sky of the city like an umbrella, keeps the city bright. District 5 provides the power for them as long as we provide the electronics to make it. An alliance formed from necessity rather than mutual liking of one another. There are hardly any Districts who truly feel affections towards one another. The Hunger Games ruined whatever loyalty we felt before.
I reach across and draw the curtains – blackout curtains – which I paid a high price for on visiting District 8 a while back – on government business of course. My acquaintances, I and call them that because that's all they really are, don't particularly understand my interest in the darkness, having grown up in only the light. I don't really understand it either, my nightmares, after all, only attack once I shroud myself in it. My eyes adjust to the darkness immediately, this is more than just a ritual, it's training. My chances of being Reaped this year aren't particular high again, but stranger things have happened. Two years ago, a twelve-year old girl was Reaped. Her name was only entered once. That night, I watched all the Hunger Games from the first, using a variety of video tapes, DVDs and hacked files online. That was when I realised just what a disadvantage our District was at. If we were forever in the light, how could we prepare for the darkness?
Sitting cross-legged on the cold floor in the middle of my one room, I just waited for the hours to pass, listening to the ticking of my watch. 7269 seconds later, I arose. Pausing to open my door, I looked back at the darkness, threatening but also alluring.
"Be right back." I murmur, before slamming the door shut behind me. A small voice pipes up in my head, that I might not even come back, but I shut it down before it even has a chance to finish its sentence. I know the odds, just like everyone else does. They're all posted on a board in the middle of the city. There are 2465 female names in this year's draw. I have only been entered five times. I have no need for tesserae despite the blatant poverty in our District. Five over two thousand four hundred and sixty five. Or one over four hundred and ninety three. So says the logic anyway. I let the feeling of relief wash over me as I take the stairs, knowing that others can't have this bliss.
"Akia Kaine." I say when I get to the front of my line. The Peacekeeper looks up, a vague look of recognition in his eyes. He abandons it after a second, reaching out to take my hand. Unlike other years, I no longer have to go through the pain of being signed in through blood. This year, they scan a barcode imprinted on the under-side of my left wrist. My name and face pops up with a ding and he nods before letting me past into the Reaping building. I rub at my wrist tentatively, remembering the wave of scorching heat when they branded me. It was gone in seconds, but it wasn't a pleasant experience. A small price to pay for not having to use your blood for any of the important things anymore.
I reach my so-called 'pen', the code '16F' on the gate. There are some seats, right at the back, but only the really nervous ones who look like they're about to vomit take them. The rest of us stand, tapping foots and chewing nails. I briefly consider the glare of a stylist if they ever saw my nails. Bitten to the shortest stump available without drawing blood, they, no doubt, would be horrified. I shake my head, scolding myself for thinking such thoughts. I lean against the metal railings separating the groups of us, careful to not overstep the boundaries as a Peacekeeper regards me with mild interest. There's a look in his eye. Don't cross that line. And I don't.
No-one talks to each other. Apart from the initial buzz from the new twelve-year olds who step out of line and stumble into the wrong pens, the rest of us are silent, giving each other glances as if to say 'Good luck'. A few times I am tempted to mouth back at the worried glances 'And may the odds be ever in your favour'. But I don't think they'd forgive me for that. Especially today. So I keep my mouth shut, biting my lip – an annoying habit I acquired from my father. It shows that I do worry. It shows that I am weak.
And I can't be.
The trumpets in the Capitol music blare louder than usual. But maybe that's because the hall is so silent. Milliseconds later I spot our escort, her eyes closed, mouthing words. I make some out before I get bored. There is a point in this, even if it's only to prove that my vision is heightened. I feel myself relaxing despite the rigid position I am in. Someone behind me lets out a strangled sob. I don't turn around. I don't feel pity. I don't feel anything but anger. Idiot.
The escort finally steps forward in all of her glory. Electrifying blue hair that reaches her waist tumbles in corkscrews, her bright pulsating hot pink outfit contrasting greatly with everything else. Then again, the Capitol has never been renowned for colour matching abilities. My eyes flit back up to her face, after watching her totter up to the microphone on heels at least six inches tall, finding it powdered white, blushing a deep red and her lips a soft purple colour. I save her eyes for last, knowing that they'll be as eccentric as the rest of her. She wears white contacts rimmed with black that are bigger than the usual iris, probably scaring the younger ones here, and peacock feathers as eyelashes. I frown, I'm sure they were extinct... Her voice breaks through my pondering, a fierce Capitol accent hurting my ears. I pity whoever has to put up with her ramblings for the week before the Games.
"Welcome, welcome, ladies and gentlemen," she says, referring to the parents and inhabitants of District 3 behind our pens, not bothering to address us. "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour." She claps her hands together in glee. The sound echoes through the building. "Now, before we begin, we have a special video for you all the way from the Capitol."
She stands back and a screen flickers on. I ignore the video, turning away, wishing that some idiot from the Capitol would change the script a little. It gets a bit old after a while. President Snow's voice slices through the hall, almost as if he was with us. I see him in my mind, lips smiling, eyes dead. He's appeared in many of my nightmares, especially in the past year after the second Quarter Quell. If anybody never realised just how cruel he was and could be, they did after last year's Hunger Games. Katniss Everdeen, the 'Girl on Fire', was the sole survivor again. Peeta Mellark was dead. This time, they made sure only one of them remained alive. Capitol mourned for a while, for the loss of their pet love, but then they quickly accepted it, reasoning that it had been unfair on the rest of the Districts anyway, letting two of them survive. Beetee and Wiress died last year too, so I knew that there were no formal mentors for District 3 – maybe we'd borrow them from another district. No, Capitol wouldn't be that stupid. Or, at least, I hope they wouldn't be. Pairing up mentors and tributes from different districts would be catastrophic, the tributes wouldn't have a chance of surviving past the pedestal.
The video ends with one of Snow's chillingly smiles and I shut my eyes, trying to erase it from my memory. It doesn't work, his face imprinted in the back of my mind. At this point, I honestly wouldn't be surprised if someone had tattooed his face to the under side of my eyelids; his face is one that never leaves your mind.
"I just love that part." the escort sighs. I narrow my eyes, still sticking to the script, then.
"Now," She sounds cheery and excited. "As usual, ladies first!"
One cannot forget manners, even at a time like this, apparently. She reaches down into the the fish-bowl marked 'F', rising up from the floor on a pink pillar. I snigger inappropriately at the generic colours. I hate pink. Her fingers finally find a slip. She pulls it out of the bowl and starts to bring it up. Another slip drifts down to the floor. She accidentally picked up two. I want to swear and scream out loud. So much fucking tension. Her cheeks are more red than before which I didn't think was possible.
"Okay." her voice is shaking. "Let's just pick out another one, shall we?"
No-one answers her.
Her hand dives in more quickly this time, pulling up a slip, carefully making sure that there's only one in her hand. She holds it at an arm's length. I wonder if she's long-sighted or something. She smiles. She must've gotten it right this time.
Her voice is crisp and clear despite her Capitol accent.
For once I wish it wasn't.
"Akia Kaine!"
I close my eyes.
So this is the extent of my luck.
One over four hundred and ninety three. So says the logic anyway.
Fuck logic.
I open my eyes.
And smile brightly.
Thank you for reading! R&R!
Rachemma